"Well, sire?"
"Tavannes," said the King, "you will tire Margot; put her back on her perch. It is no reason, because she bears the name of my sister, the Queen of Navarre, that every one should caress her."
Tavannes put the hawk on her perch, and amused himself by curling and uncurling a greyhound's ears.
"But, sire, if any one should say to your Majesty: 'Sire, your Majesty shall be delivered from all your enemies to-morrow'?"
"And by the intercession of what saint would this miracle be wrought?"
"Sire, to-day is the 24th of August, and therefore it would be by the interposition of Saint Bartholomew."
"A worthy saint," replied the King, "who allowed himself to be skinned alive!"
"So much the better; the more he suffered, the more he ought to have felt a desire for vengeance on his executioners."
"And will you, my cousin," said the King, "will you, with your pretty little gold-hilted sword, slay ten thousand Huguenots between now and to-morrow? Ha! ha! ha! mort de ma vie! you are very amusing, Monsieur de Guise!"
And the King burst into a loud laugh, but a laugh so forced that the room echoed with its sinister sound.